


The Hunter's Church

by insominia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, Castiel is a legend, Dean Winchester in Heaven, Family Feels, Future Fic, Gen, Post-Canon, Protective Castiel, Sam Winchester in Heaven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 19:39:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17873573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insominia/pseuds/insominia
Summary: The gates of heaven are closed to Castiel and not even his voice can penetrate it. After the Winchesters have passed Castiel still hunts and the new hunters sometimes pray to the legendary guardian angel of hunters. He always comes when they call and all he ever asks in return is that when they pray they pass on a message - I'm safe and I love you.





	The Hunter's Church

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wargurl83](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wargurl83/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Церковь охотника](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18597370) by [bfcure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bfcure/pseuds/bfcure)



> Inspired by this beautiful prompt, wargurl83 posted in Profound Bond:
> 
> What if...
> 
> When the Winchesters finally get to rest in heaven, Castiel is still exiled?
> 
> Left to wander the world forever, without his family. And as the years pass a legend grows within the Hunter community. 
> 
> At first they thought it was just a lone hunter who kept to himself, but he never ages, never sleeps, always drinks.
> 
> He appears in the same dark clothes, dark glasses, leather and plaid. The rumble of the Impala he drives is the sound dying hunters pray for.
> 
> And pray to him they do.
> 
> They pray to the Patron Saint of Hunters. This Angel of Solitude and Tears. To come when they call. To heal their wounds and banish the evil that befell them. 
> 
> Sometimes he will visit the haunts of hunters, roadhouses and safehouses, leaving small gifts in payment - weapons, talismens and lore.  
> He rarely speaks and when he does he tells the stories of his family, long gone.
> 
> His price is always the same.  
> To speak their names. To tell the stories. To offer their thanks and prayers to Sam and Dean, to Mary, John, Bonny, Jo, Ellen, Charlie, Jody, Claire and many more.   
> So that the prayer will reach them where he cannot.   
> So they know he is safe, he goes on.  
> That he will protect their kin, their hunters. That he will make sure no one forgets their names and their sacrifices.

****~ The Hunter ~****

 

There were several poles of varying lengths leaning against the wall, and almost instinctively the hunter grabbed one, slipping it through the door handles, just as the door shuddered from the weight of his pursuer. But the door held and the hunter allowed himself a breath, falling back against the wall. He had a moment, he could take stock. Ignoring the way the door rattled and bucked as the werewolf threw himself at it, the hunter reached into his pocket. He'd dropped his gun, that wasn't a surprise, he'd heard the clatter as he'd rounded a corner, catching himself on a pillar. His hand went to the other pocket, _shit_ , the knife was gone. Keeping his breath deliberately steady he reached into his boot, a groan of pain escaping as he bent over, but he pulled his secondary knife from his boot and held it tightly in front of him. It wasn't ideal, but it was silver.

He winced as another pained sigh left his lips and with a frown, he realised that the noises were coming from him. He patted himself down, crying out when his hand tapped against his stomach. His hand came away bloody and he sighed, _shit shit shit_. The rod bent in the door frame and the hunter fell back further, but he didn't get far before he collapsed down his head swimming. Holding the knife with trembling hands, he let himself rest against the wall, waiting for the werewolf to break in and end him.

' _Please_ ,' he begged, silently, ' _not like this..._ '

The rod snapped and the two parts clanged against the ground, lost immediately as the doors flew open and the werewolf charged in. He paused, only for a moment, before he sighted the hunter and seeing that he only had a glorified butter knife to defend with, a smirk crossed his lips. The smirk was frozen there as the first shot ran out, and the hunter flinched as a bullet passed straight through the werewolf's heart, before another took root somewhere in his chest and another for good measure. The werewolf was still smirking as he crumpled to the floor, his eyes never leaving the hunter even as his last breath left him and his blood pooled around him. The hunter hadn't registered what had happened, he just stared at the dead werewolf, uncomprehending. A shadow moved through the doors and the hunter could have screamed with relief, he recognised a fellow hunter, the combination of denim, leather, and flannel was a dead give away more so even than the fact the guy had just ganked a werewolf without batting an eye. 

"Can you walk?" the man asked, his voice gruff as he positioned himself beside the bleeding hunter. The hunter nodded and allowed the man to brace him under the shoulders and hoist him to his feet. He wasn't sure at what point he lost consciousness, but he was dimly aware of cold night air, of a warm light passing through him and his stomach felt better, then he was face down on leather upholstery and there was darkness.

When the hunter came to he was in his own motel room. The other man was still with him, cleaning the hunter's gun at a table by the light of the bedside lamp. "You're awake," the man said, gruffly, his eyes not leaving the gun. "I've taken care of your wound and replaced the bullets I used." He gave the gun a final polish and lay it on the table, a clip of silver bullets beside it. "You lost quite a bit of blood so you should rest a while." He gestured to the nightstand where several packages of varying take-away foods rested. "I wasn't sure of your preferences," the man said, a small blush creeping into his cheeks as he threw on a trench coat over his flannels.

He made to move to the door, but the hunter called out, "wait! Wait, thank you," but the man just waved it away, "you saved my life." The man shrugged. "No, really, you saved my life."

The man turned back, slowly, "I'm not interested in compensation, however, if you wanted to do something to, 'pay me back'," his fingers moved to make air quotes and the hunter chuckled, despite his pain, "then here," he slipped a business card onto the table, "visit this place and...and tell them something from me."

"What do you want me to tell them?"

The hunter didn't understand the message, but he promised to pass it on and the man seemed satisfied. For the moment though, he was exhausted and light-headed, so he fell back heavily against the pillows and turned his attention to the pile of food beside him.

 

****~The Woman~****

 

"I'm telling you it's not a werewolf!" the woman in the corner of the bar was shouting into the phone, though as soon as she did so she closed her eyes and groaned. A couple of people turned to look at her and she gave them an awkward smile, covering her mouth with her hand and dropping her voice, "it's not a vampire either!" she hissed.

She listened to the voice on the phone, rubbing her temples as though exhausted, waiting for the moment where she could interrupt and tell him he was wrong. "Look, you saw the photos yeah? The heart was gone yes, but it didn't look like your standard animal attack. And you saw the bite marks? Like fangs...look, I'm just saying this is weird and-"

"Nachzehrer," a voice beside her said, and she looked up in time to see a dark haired man in hunter's plaid slip into the booth opposite her.

"I'm sorry?" the woman asked, arching an eyebrow.

"What you're hunting. It's not a werewolf or a vampire, it's called a Nachzehrer."

"I'll call you back," the woman snapped, disconnecting the call quickly and turning her attention fully to the man. "A Nachzehrer? Never heard of it."

"They're not common," he reached into a pocket and placed a coin purse in front of her, "you'll need these to kill it."

She clicked the purse open and ran her finger through the contents, "pennies?"

"Copper coins. Put one in its mouth and decapitate them, if you kill the Alpha everyone else they turned will become human again."

The woman held his gaze for a moment. "Huh. Well ok then," she paused, "you uh...you wanna come help?"

But the man shook his head, "I have places to be, but if you're successful, I'll meet you here in two days and buy you a drink to celebrate."

"And if I'm not?"

"I have a lead on the Alpha and I promise I'll salt and burn your body," the man said, so seriously for a moment, she didn't realise he was joking until he let out a small smirk and she punched his arm.

"Son of a bitch!"

Two days later the woman came back to the same booth at the same bar. On the table were two bottles of beer and a whiskey chaser each, but the man hadn't touched his, he'd obviously been waiting for her.

"Got him," she said, cheerily, raising the chaser and toasting him.

He raised his own in time and they downed it in one. She coughed, she hadn't expected it to be the good stuff. Hunters didn't usually have that kind of taste, or money even if they did.

"Well done," he smiled.

The woman waved him away, "couldn't have done it without you. Really," she added, sincerely, "my guy thought it was some kind of _were-pire_ if you can imagine such a thing, so thanks."

"Were-pire," the man snorted, but he wasn't annoyed if anything he seemed to soften a little.

They drank their beers in silence, but the man was drinking a little faster than she was, as though he had somewhere to be. With only a third left in the bottle, he tipped it back and downed it in a single, impressive gulp.

"You in a hurry?" the woman asked, amused.

He gave a small shrug, "places to be, hunters to help."

She rolled her eyes, "oh what, you're our guardian angel?"

Again there was the soft smile, "you could say that."

The woman shrugged, "well, you helped me a ton. Thanks," she moved the coin purse, lighter than when he had given it to her towards him but he shook his head and pushed it back.

"You keep it, and for future reference, you need pennies pre-1982, before they stopped using copper in them."

She nodded, pulling the purse back into her pocket, "thanks...you know I don't even know your name? You wanna give me your number or something so I can return the favour some time?"

"You don't have to do that," he reached into the trench coat he'd thrown over his plaid and handed her a business card, "but if you wanted to help, you could go here and give them a message from me."

Her eyes fell into a natural frown as she took in the details on the card, it wasn't a place she knew but she could find it easily enough, "sure, what's the message?"

She had to ask him to repeat it twice, the second time she struggled to stifle her giggles but the third time she got it and nodded solemnly as he smiled his thanks and left her with another round on him.

 

****~The Bartender~****

 

The sign on the door said 'closed'. There had been flyers dotted around the place for days, ' _We're sorry but on the 12th we'll be closed for maintenance_.' Every hunter who had come in for the last week had been told, " _you know we'll be closed for maintenance right? Tell your friends._ " So the bartender didn't feel even remotely bad for screaming, "We're closed!" at the denim-clad hunter who stepped through the door. He backed off quickly enough and she gave a huff of annoyance, turning back to the task at hand. The task at hand was retrieving the old-style tape deck from wherever she had stowed it last year. She found it, just as someone else stepped into the bar, his trench coat sweeping out behind him as he strode towards her; she didn't tell him to get out.

She inhaled deeply and blew long and hard over the tape deck, blowing off the worst of the dust and with a couple of sweeps of her hand, it looked mostly usable again. The man had taken off his trench coat and folded it neatly on one of the bar stools, after retrieving a cassette tape from an inside pocket. She took it without a word and slipped it in, clicking down the chunky 'play' button before plugging it into the sound system, allowing the familiar tones of Led Zeppelin to echo through the empty bar. She turned it down a little, they didn't need it to be blasting. By the time she was done, the man had a clipboard out and was already frowning at it. The bartender gave him a winning smile and nodded when he asked, "shall we start?"

His ways were not her ways and it didn't take long for them to start snapping at each other. Why not check the salt when they replaced the hex bags, she demanded but he wouldn't have it, pointing firmly to the list on the clipboard, determined to do it right. The bartender rolled her eyes but didn't argue the point, he was right, he was always right, and they had both been doing this same routine every year for almost a decade now, so they didn't have to worry about offending the other.

The man's list was sound. First, they replaced all the hex bags in the walls, then they repainted the wardings and the devil traps on every floor. The salt lines were always the last to be redrawn, the man feared they'd disturb them if they were done first and his logic was undeniable. Regardless, the bartender would scoff. Then they came to check the weapons stash. On the off chance something managed to enter this warded strongbox of a bar the inhabitants weren't going to be let down by poor weapon maintenance. This year they only needed to replace the witch killing bullets and two of the iron bars looked as though they'd seen better days. The bartender paused as they refilled the racks, the man usually produced something new at this point and true to form he held out a brass knife "for rakshashas," he said, and the bartender nodded knowingly, which he saw right through and launched into a detailed explanation about the monster in question.

Out back were the rooms and they repeated the routine. Hex bags, warding, salt lines. If this was one of the few places a hunter could lay their head in absolute safety then they would make sure it was damn safe. It was dark by the time they finished but she could never convince the man to stay. "Places to be?" the bartender said, knowingly, chuckling as he rolled his eyes and donned the trench coat. "What do I owe you?" she asked, knowing that he never had and never would accept anything as payment, not really, but she reached behind the bar and pulled out two six-packs she'd gotten in for him earlier and he smiled broadly at her.

"Thank you," he said, scribbling something down on the back of a card. He slipped the card to her and she gave it a brief once over before nodding, sincerely.

"Thursday, right?" she asked. It was a rhetorical question. It was always Thursday. When he didn't reply she patted him on the shoulder and said, "see you next year," following him out so she could flip the sign to 'open'.

 

****~Claire~****

 

It was a Thursday. They always met on Thursdays. Claire Novak double checked the warding, the traps, but they were no different from when she had checked the day before. From downstairs she could hear people starting to drift in, she didn't lock the door on Thursdays, mostly so she didn't have to keep opening it for everyone. At her age, she couldn't be bothered with such things. The thought made her smirk. _At her age_.

There was a mirror on the landing and she glimpsed herself, always taken aback by the grey hairs, the wrinkles lining her face, the smattering of faded scars all over her skin like a tapestry. She had never expected to get to this point and the outline of a knife in her boot and the salt lining the walls were a testament to the fact that she didn't take it for granted. She started down the stairs, wincing slightly at the motion of her knees, but that was less from age and more from a lifetime of being thrown against walls. As she reached the bottom the front door opened and she recognised the wary, confused look of two newbies; a man, and a woman being shown into the house by that bartender from the lodge upstate.

"And this is Claire," the bartender was telling them, "it's her house and she runs the place."

"Claire?" the woman asked, "Claire Novak?"

"No way," the hunter beside her gasped and Claire rolled her eyes.

"The one the only, go on," she jerked her thumb down the hallway and led them through the house to the back rooms. There were several hunters already there and they'd found the beer, some of them had already moved onto something stronger. All of them smiled at Claire as she came in and she greeted them with a nod, moving to grab a beer for herself.

The bartender was showing the two around, pointing out pictures on the walls. Claire heard her say, "and them's the Winchesters."

"The Winchesters? As in Sam and Dean Winchester?" the hunter asked, moving to take a closer look at the photographs. Claire smiled, this was what she did this for and she moved around the room, not pushing herself into any of the conversations, just listening to everyone sharing stories about Sam, Dean and the others. It never failed to amaze her, even by hunter's standards their lives had been weird.

' _So I heard one time they went into an alternate dimension...'_

_'I heard that one time Dean told God to shut up...'_

_'Can you imagine being the angel to show the Winchesters to heaven and tell them that Castiel can't come in?'_

People stopped trickling in and nobody had come in for some time so it was time to begin. Claire stepped forward and waited for the conversation to lull as though her movement were the signal. "So where're the first timers?" she asked the room and aside from the two that came in with the bartender one other guy at the back raised a hand, tentatively. She nodded, almost approvingly and the other hunters, the regulars smiled in anticipation. For most of them, this was their favourite part. "So you were sent here, dark-haired guy, blue eyes, trench coat?" They nodded, Claire smiled at them, "well lucky you, you all met Angel of the Lord, Castiel," and she paused to appreciate the effect.

The woman clapped her hand over her mouth to suppress the scream, " _What?!_ "

"No, no way, _no way_ ," the hunter was muttering under his breath.

Even some of the regulars looked amazed even though they knew it to be true and had heard it all before. Claire couldn't blame them. She herself had somehow become a legend in the hunting community, though she couldn't be too surprised, the hunter that lived to retirement was rare enough to be a myth and as she didn't go out on hunts anymore she might even die in her bed. But Castiel, Castiel was something else.

An angel of the Lord, fallen from heaven, become the guardian angel of hunters. Claire knew he couldn't fly anymore, he hadn't been able to for a while and his healing prowess had diminished steadily over the years, probably because heaven was closed to him, but to those gathered in the room he might as well have been a full-fledged archangel. He was always there when a hunter needed him, when a hunt went wrong he was there. When something new showed up he was there. Suddenly find yourself short of a vital ingredient he was there with a replacement. He was impossibly everywhere and though they might think he could fly or slip through the world unnoticed, the distinctive hum of the Impala's engine proved otherwise. Every hunter knew the story, the legend and most of them would admit to having prayed to him in their darkest moments. Some of them he could even save.

The first-timers had broken off into excited conversation. listening to the regulars talking about Castiel and offering their own stories in exchange. Claire let them carry on for a while, the stories inevitably turning back to Castiel's adventures with the Winchesters.

' _He pulled Dean Winchester from Hell...'_

_'I hear it takes a liquor store to get him drunk..._ '

The conversations continued, they drank, they ate and a room full of hunters told stories about the hunters that had come before them, united by their shared history and the care of a fallen angel.

"Does anyone have any messages?" Claire asked, swiping a grey hair from her face, as the evening drew on. The newbies did, that was a given, but a handful of others stepped forward, reaching into their pockets and pulling out identical business cards with varying handwritten notes on the reverse. Some of them pulled forward chairs so they could sit in a circle as Claire moved around them lighting candles. They weren't needed but it always lent something to the atmosphere as everyone else milled around the circle, speaking now in hushed whispers.

The bartender, a regular in her own right, brought a chair out for Claire and she slipped into it, aware that the first-timers were looking around themselves, wondering what was going on and what was coming next.

Silence fell and Claire smiled despite herself, "We gather here today in friendship and fellowship lifting our voices to heaven hoping that Sam and Dean, you have your ears on."

She looked at the bartender beside her who took the cue and read off the card, "we made sure the Lodge is properly warded and stocked, we'll make sure there's never a repeat of the Roadhouse. I'm safe and I love you."

The man beside her, a guy who'd been a couple of times before glanced down at his card, "worked a case where some guy picked an apple from a tree and turned to dust for his trouble. Met some Hesperides, but didn't have to kill them, just put up some signs saying 'do not pick the flowers'. You'd have liked them, Dean, there were three of them and they didn't wear very much. I'm safe and I love you."

The woman there for the first time read over her card and chuckled, "someone else said were-pire, I might try and add it to the lore. I'm safe and I love you."

"I gave baby an oil change and nothing went wrong. I'm safe and I love you."

"Had a case in Indiana," the man reading the card snorted suddenly, "the changing rooms of a lingerie shop were haunted. Wasn't going to look into it but then thought how much you'd shout at me if I passed it up. I'm safe and I love you."

"Found a journal that was probably owned by Paracelsus at an auction for rare books, bet Sam is wishing he stayed as a ghost just to look at it. I'm safe and I love you."

They came around to the first-time hunter, "lots of werewolf activity in Wyoming. Two alphas were fighting for territory and turning whoever got caught in the middle. They're both dead now. I'm safe and I love you."

Everyone turned to look back at Claire, the most seasoned of them all yet this part never failed to make her misty-eyed and embarrassed. She started Thursdays angry, angry that after everything the Winchesters and Castiel had done they were reduced to this to pass his messages along. The doors of heaven were sealed to Castiel and not even his voice could penetrate it. But angels were just dicks with wings and what kind of hunters would they be if they didn't find a way around the rules? But by now the anger had always faded, and it was just Castiel reaching out to heaven, to the brothers who had moved on decades ago. She wiped her eyes and said, softly, "we'll never forget you, boys. We hope that you're having fun up there and raising hell, but not so much hell they send you back," she added with a chuckle, wiping her eyes again, "give our love to Jo, Bobby, and the others, we're doing ok down here. We're safe and we love you."


End file.
